


a thing of cream and stars

by laurxnts



Series: the summer palace, extended version [1]
Category: Captive Prince - C. S. Pacat
Genre: Fluff and Smut, M/M, Past Child Abuse, The Summer Palace, in which Damen gifts Laurent with a brand new horse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-14
Updated: 2017-04-14
Packaged: 2018-10-18 19:48:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,491
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10623927
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/laurxnts/pseuds/laurxnts
Summary: They have a week here, if nothing steals Laurent away from him too soon, and Damen has plans; things he’d only dared to imagine doing with Laurent at the very end of their trip away from Arles, when everything had seemed too forbidden and too self-indulgent to dare thinking about except for in his most private daydreams. It seems unreal now that he might get to do these things with Laurent, and even more, that Laurent might be thinking of them too.-In which Damen and Laurent have breakfast, go riding, and soak in the river.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [vannes](https://archiveofourown.org/users/vannes/gifts).



> I'm gonna write a whole series of oneshots of headcanons I have of how Laurent and Damen spend their week at the summer palace, so keep a look out for those! This is not proofread because I am going to be late for work hgfdsd  
> I'm dedicating this to emma / @casscaixn because she has been working very hard at school and I just wanted to give her this because I'm Love Her

Damen wakes on the edge of dawn, a nuisance really. This is supposed to be their last chance for an escape before they are thrust into the political leadership that they are so desperately running from right now—months and months where Damen would have to wake before dawn every day, with only the smallest of moments of solitude sequestered away in the gardens or their bedroom. It must have been ingrained into him; years of waking early to help his father when he was crown prince, and after that; months of waking on the edge of dawn to help the soldiers, to run through formations on their way to the border. Damen pushes himself up to his elbows, the thin white sheet pooling around his waist, and runs a hand through his hair. Across the room, the balcony doors are still flung open and the sheer white curtains billow in the early morning breeze, bringing in the fresh scent of wild flowers and grass and, beyond that, the distinctive smell of ocean air—so familiar; something Damen almost thought, for a second, he would never get to smell again. The dawn light spills through the gaps in the drapes, casting patterns across the stone walls, and Damen smiles, finally bringing his gaze to the greatest part of waking up; something so acutely new to him that Damen thinks he ought to drink it in. It seems impossible that he might get this every day; everything still feels like borrowed time. He wonders what it might be like when that feeling fades away; it seems impossible that it might become routine to wake up beside Laurent.

If waking at dawn is something engrained into a prince’s very instincts, Laurent seems utterly immune to it. Just as he does to everything, really. Laurent’s head is turned to the side slightly, golden hair spilling across the white pillow just as golden sunlight spills across the stone walls, and Damen allows himself the simple delight of watching as Laurent’s chest rises and falls slowly with his breathing. With his head turned, that place on his neck is exposed, almost too tempting really; that one place Damen knows could take Laurent apart. The sheet is pooled around his waist too; the thick, midday summer air is traded for gentle, cool morning breeze right now but it is not cold enough to require much protection, not even for Laurent’s too-fine skin. They have a week here, if nothing steals Laurent away from him too soon, and Damen has plans; things he’d only dared to imagine doing with Laurent at the very end of their trip away from Arles, when everything had seemed too forbidden and too self-indulgent to dare thinking about except for in his most private daydreams. It seems unreal now that he might get to do these things with Laurent, and even more, that Laurent might be thinking of them too.

Laurent makes a small, unthinking sleepy noise, shifting ever so slightly, and Damen almost holds his breath, as if he might break this moment. He knows he will get to see it more than once; the simple delight of seeing Laurent sleep, of seeing him wake up, but right now Damen wants to hold onto this as if it is the most precious moment of his life. The curtain billows, shifting in the morning breeze, and the golden light of sunrise spills across Laurent’s skin, casting it cream-gold in the light. 

“You know,” Laurent says, his voice thick with sleep. It takes Damen by surprise, the increase of his pulse almost instant—either out of shock, or simply out of the delight of hearing Laurent talk. Silly. “You don’t have to keep watch on me. I’m not going to go anywhere.”

“How do you know I’m watching you?” Damen says, amused. Laurent breathes out a tiny noise that sounds like laughter.

“I can practically hear you drooling, Damen,” Laurent replies, his eyes fluttering open; golden lashes fanned out over pale blue. His eyes are unfocused when he passes them over the room, finally settling on Damen, and Damen cannot help but wonder when he got so lucky; what he did that allowed him the delight of watching Laurent wake like this; sleepy—lazy and unhurried. “It’s barely past sunrise. Why are you awake?”

“Why are you?” Damen asks, grinning foolishly.

“You woke me up,” Laurent grumbles, his eyes sliding shut again. 

It seems impossible that carefully composed Laurent—the icy crown prince of Vere—might be grumpy and petulant early in the mornings when given the time to indulge. Every time he had seen Laurent awaken on their travels to the border had been instant, Laurent coming awake and instantly alert at the smallest thing. Everything about Laurent lately feels like  _ learning;  _ discovering all the small parts of Laurent that had been buried behind all those walls when they had been exploring one another during those hectic months. He wonders if he’s the only one discovering new things; he wonders if there are things about Damen that are taking Laurent by surprise, even now. Wonders if Laurent is discovering new things about  _ himself,  _ too, now that he is given the freedom to explore them. 

“I didn’t do anything,” Damen replies, still amused.

“You were breathing,” Laurent says, making a small noise of displeasure. “Let me go back to sleep.”

“Of course,” Damen says, feigning his most humble voice. “I will ensure I stop breathing for you, your Highness.”

“Shut up,” Laurent groans, turning on his side to deny Damen his face, and his torso, and all the other things that Damen was rather enjoying looking at.

Laurent’s golden hair tumbles across the pillow behind him, not long enough to brush his shoulders when standing yet, but long enough that the odd stray curl falls onto the white pillow beneath him. Damen toys with one, brushing his finger through it, and Laurent makes a small, unthinking noise of pleasure. Ah, of course. Laurent has no protests about being kept awake for  _ that.  _ Damen shifts on the bed, dipping his head to press a single, soft kiss to that place in Laurent’s neck. Laurent’s gasp is instant, a shudder running through his whole body, and Damen can’t help but smile against his skin, watching Laurent’s body come awake. 

“ _ Damen, _ ” Laurent breathes, tilting his head back to allow Damen access to his neck. Damen slips his arm around Laurent’s waist, fingertips dancing a gentle pattern across Laurent’s abdomen, his mouth sliding slowly over the fine skin of Laurent’s neck. It’s even more delightful to hear Laurent come apart when he is still softened by the edges of sleep; when the noises that slip from his mouth are unchecked and not repressed. “I—”

“Mm?” Damen hums, slotting his body against Laurent’s, his mouth working on the curve of Laurent’s neck. He feels Laurent’s hand come up behind him, threading his fingers through the thick curls of Damen’s hair, another gasp tumbling from Laurent’s lips. 

“You just—ah, you just wanted me to wake up,” Laurent mumbles, his words slurred; all his attention focused on Damen’s lips—and Damen’s hand as it caresses patterns on Laurent’s abdomen, only inches away from the space between his legs where Damen knows he must be inevitably thickening. He knows he doesn’t even need to touch Laurent there to take him apart. The thought sends a small sliver of pleasure down his gut and further, his own cock rousing against Laurent. He hears Laurent’s soft exhale of breath—something akin to laughter. “And yourself, apparently.”

“We have all day,” Damen breathes into the space of Laurent’s neck, kissing his way up to Laurent’s ear, ghosting his lips against it. “I can take you apart slowly—we can take our time.”

“And yet,” Laurent manages, his words only slightly cracked by arousal. “You insisted on waking me up at dawn.”

“We’ll go riding today,” Damen mumbles into Laurent’s ear, and lets himself delight in the way Laurent gasps at it. “I have something for you.” 

“Mm,” Laurent hums, almost dazed. Damen wonders if Laurent is even listening. “Maybe you should refrain from fucking me now, then. If you are planning to have me ride a horse all day.”

“Maybe,” Damen mumbles, shifting so he is above Laurent, turning him gently until Laurent is on his back, blue eyes staring up at him. It’s not a sight Damen thinks he will ever get tired of; Laurent underneath him, dark eyed and flushed cheeks, lips swollen from where he must have bitten down on them to hold in an undignified noise of pleasure. Damen dips his head, and kisses him on the mouth. 

Laurent’s next noise of pleasure is lost in Damen’s mouth, a small whimper—partly shock, too—and Damen revels in it, drinking it up. He kisses Laurent slowly, indulgently, their mouths sliding together as sweet and gentle as the flowery morning breeze. Laurent’s hand grips Damen’s bicep, curling slightly, as if looking for some sort of anchor, and Damen lets their hips slot together, a slow back and forth that Damen knows will take Laurent apart—even if it is not enough for Damen himself to come.

“Damen,” Laurent breathes into his mouth, in the small space between their lips. “I—”

Already. Damen’s heart swells, a little. He rocks his hips again, dragging his cock over Laurent’s in a slow, simulated fuck that has Laurent whimpering into his mouth, dragging him down for another kiss. Damen indulges him for another long moment before finding that space under Laurent’s jaw, grazing his lips against it. Laurent groans, his whole body curving into Damen’s touch as he shudders, surrendering to it. 

Damen pulls back, slightly, resting his forehead on Laurent’s shoulder, helping him through it as Laurent comes, before he leans up and kisses Laurent once, sweetly, on the lips. 

“I think you do that just to boost your ego,” Laurent mumbles, words only slightly blurred by post-orgasmic glow. Damen chuckles. “You like that it’s so easy.”

Damen hums, pressing another kiss to Laurent’s lips. “Maybe I just like making you feel good.”

“Maybe,” Laurent sighs happily, his eyes sliding shut again. He shifts his hips, and Damen bites off a noise at the way Laurent’s hips grind against his own cock; almost fully hard now. “You can.”

“Maybe later,” Damen mumbles, pushing himself off Laurent and lying beside him. He grabs the towel they discarded on the floor last night after making love and gently shifts. “Here. Let me towel you down.”

Laurent doesn’t protest; his breathing evening out again as if he is falling asleep. Damen lets him have it; he thinks its not often that Laurent’s web of overthinking is distant enough that he can allow himself the simple pleasures of sex without the convoluted things that come with it; not often that Laurent can drift into a post-orgasmic bliss without forcing himself out of it. Damen throws the towel on the floor, and presses a small, sweet kiss to Laurent’s forehead before gently shifting off the bed. 

The kitchens are fully stocked and around half-staffed, which is impressive given the skeletal staff that came here with them, and the time of the morning. It’s a silly thing to want to collect breakfast for Laurent, to want to bring it to their rooms for him, but Damen figures this week is all  _ about  _ silly, self-indulgent things that they had not had the time for at the border, and may not have time for again for a very long time. He does not really know what Laurent likes to eat for breakfast, another simple thing that Damen wants to discover about Laurent, but he can’t imagine Laurent being particularly fussy about—actually, Laurent seems exactly the type to pick at food in detest, some cutting remark about the chef slipping from his tongue. Or at least, the Laurent he knew back in Arles would; he is not so sure about this Laurent, this new, sweeter version of him. It’s almost as if they are two different people, except they’re not; they are this one, bright, shining presence currently sleeping in Damen’s bed. Damen’s heart skips a beat. 

Damen’s fond memories of summer spent here when he was a child also provide him with knowledge of the foods that only grow in this part of Akielos, or at least—only grow  _ well  _ in this part of Akielos, and he manages to list a selection of fruits, and breads that he knows the wheat grows well for in this Akielon sun. The kitchen staff are panicked, at first, with it being earlier than they had expected the royal couple to awaken, but Damen assures them he’s willing to wait. He sits out on the palace steps, soaking in the early morning sunlight and closing his eyes against it, breathing in the fresh Akielon air. It feels impossible, almost, just like everything has recently, and it’s only now that Damen realises how little he’d actually believed he’d make it back here. He was sure, back then, that he would make it here, but this feeling of something  _ impossible  _ makes him question really how certain he had been. It aches, in a way, that the Akielon landscape is exactly as he’d remembered it yet Damen is wildly different now; brother and father dead, Jokaste gone, and everything in Damen’s perspective shifted, ever so slightly. But then, all of that traded for Laurent beside him—it feels worth it, in a way.

“Exalted,” one of the kitchen staff mumbles from behind him in a heavy Veretian accent, and Damen pushes himself to his feet. The servant is avoiding his gaze. “The food is ready. Shall I lay the table?”

“No,” Damen replies. “Give me a tray. I will bring it upstairs.”

“I can carry it—”

“No,” Damen says, again, with a smile this time. “I’ll do it.”

Laurent is still asleep by the time Damen makes it back into their room, pushing the door open with his shoulder. He’s splayed out in the middle of the bed, his head turned to Damen’s side, pressed ever so slightly against Damen’s pillow. He wonders, foolishly, if it smells like him; if Laurent had fallen into a deeper sleep smelling Damen’s scent. It’s ridiculous, but Damen grins nonetheless. He sets the tray down carefully on the cabinet and sits on the edge of the bed, his fingers caressing a gentle pattern against Laurent’s collarbone; against the scar that stands out against his pale skin from where he had been stabbed, the day of the battle at the border. Laurent’s skin is redder already; ever-so-slightly burnt from the Akielon sun even after one day and Damen thinks he’ll have to be careful today. With a very deep, aching feeling of regret, Damen decides Laurent probably should not wear a chiton today; the exposure will only irritate his fussy skin more. Damen decides he hates Laurent’s fussy skin a lot, or at least he would, it if did not grant him with other delights.

“Damen?” Laurent mumbles softly, coming awake simply from the ghosting of Damen’s fingertips. “Waking me up again?”

“I brought you breakfast,” Damen says softly, soft enough that Laurent can ignore it if he wishes to sleep more.

“Mm,” Laurent hums, his eyes fluttering open. “Is this what courting is like? I’ve never done it before.”

Damen brushes a strand of hair away from Laurent’s face, leaning down to kiss Laurent’s forehead. “I know.”

Laurent looks up at him, still hazy with the edges of whatever dream he had been having, and slowly pushes himself into a sitting position. “What did you bring?”

Damen gestures to the wooden tray; a platter of fresh fruits picked from the gardens, bread made from the wheat out in the fields, and a small pot of oil that Damen thinks might be made out of the olive branches in the shaded plantations. Then, beside that, two small glasses of juice, squeezed fresh out of the oranges growing in the gardens. Silly luxury that Damen wonders if Laurent, even as a crown prince himself, has ever been granted with. Vere does not exactly have the weather for fresh fruit plantations like Akielos, but then—but then he has seen the luxury of the Veretian court and thinks they probably had them sent from other kingdoms. 

“This is you showing off,” Laurent says simply, and Damen lets himself laugh. 

“A little.” Damen grins. “I wanted to show you what Akielos has to offer. It’s yours, too, now.”

Laurent’s eyes flicker back to him, something bright in his eyes like wonder; wonder that Damen feels mirrored in himself—the impossibility of this. That all of this might be  _ theirs.  _

“Not quite yet,” Laurent says, somewhat unnecessarily. It’s true. Laurent has not ascended yet, but soon. Damen seeks out Laurent’s hand on the bedsheets, tangles their fingers together.

“Soon,” Damen says.

“Soon,” Laurent echoes, and squeezes Damen’s hand. “Let’s eat. I need my strength if we are going to ride today. I think you vanquished me yesterday.”

Damen laughs, nudging Laurent so that he moves up on the bed and sits himself beside him, setting the tray on his own knees. “You should try the mango. It’s very good.”

“What’s this?” Laurent says, pointing to the little pot of oil, and letting himself laugh. “Is this lubricant? Do we not have enough in the room? Are you planning to go through it all in one day? I have seen how much is stashed up here; it is very ambitious to think we could use it all up in one day.”

“What?  _ No, _ ” Damen laughs, behind the press of his own hand. “You’re awful. It’s oil; you’re supposed to dip the bread in it.”

“I know,” Laurent says, picking up a piece of bread between his finger and thumb, holding it up to Damen’s lips. “Does this feel familiar?”

“I think I very much remember being the one to feed you,” Damen says aimlessly, taking the bread from Laurent’s fingers with his mouth.

“Yes, of course you would remember that,” Laurent smiles, eating a piece of fruit. “You did have trouble controlling yourself.”

“We should try to ride out before midday,” Damen says suddenly. “Or you’ll burn.”

Laurent hums his agreement, leaning his weight ever so slightly against Damen’s side as he leans in for another piece of fruit. “You are right. This fruit is very good.”

It takes them almost an hour to pick their way through breakfast; another simple indulgence that Damen hasn’t had for a very long time, and thinks Laurent has not  _ wanted  _ to do for a very long time. For him, the past few months had been a blur of fighting for his life; navigating every day on the edge of a blade with no time for luxury and indulgence. For Laurent, that had been the past six years. After that, they bathe—separately, regrettably, but Damen thinks that is something they will have time to do later. Laurent chooses to wear a chiton again—and who is Damen to argue with that, really?—but after a little bit of bickering, Laurent agrees to wear a cloak draped over his shoulders to protect his skin from the sunlight. He looks Akielon, even with the blue Veretian fabric draped over his shoulders, and Damen lets himself watch as Laurent walks out into the sunlight, the ocean breeze toying with the edge of his cloak.

“Where are the horses?” Laurent asks, waiting for Damen to walk up beside him, their fingers sliding together—even after such a small amount of time, some things are becoming instinctive to them already. Like the simple delight of holding hands.

“There are stables on the edge of the inner palace gardens,” Damen says, squinting into the bright sunlight that warms his skin. 

“On the edge of the gardens? Akielon architecture is not very practical, is it?” Laurent inhales, the sunlight almost completely above them now, and the hum of cicadas in the air. 

“Right, not nearly as practical as, say, Veretian fashion?” Damen teases, striding forward and tugging on Laurent’s hand. 

There are stables behind the palace too, but Damen thinks its better not to mention them; the stables on the edge of the gardens are where Laurent’s new horse is being kept, and there is no point in Laurent riding out with one horse only to trade it for another when they arrive. They trail slowly through the gardens, dipping in and out of the sunlight as they follow the most shaded path, stopping here and there simply to kiss—Laurent reacting as intensely as he had that first night, at Ravanel, to each kiss Damen presses against him under the shaded trees. It’s something he’ll never tire of; the gasp, the whole shudder that runs through Laurent at the first meeting of their tongues, or the press of Damen’s lips against his skin. 

Each time they pull away and Laurent pushes himself away from the tree where he had been pressed, Damen lets himself delight in the flush that sits high on Laurent’s cheekbones. The one that has nothing to do with the summer heat. He tucks away the image in his mind; the one that, by the end of this week, will probably be filled with memory upon memory of Laurent looking like  _ that.  _ He wonders if he’ll have room for anything else—anything of political importance—by the time they get back. He thinks he does not even care. If Damen does not have room to think after this week, then Laurent can do all the thinking, and Damen will simply admire him. Or not, on second thoughts—that will only provoke Laurent’s teasing remarks. 

“If you do that every time we walk through the gardens,” Laurent says, tilting his head to admire the twisting branches overhead as they walk. “It will take us hours to get anywhere.”

“So?” Damen smiles foolishly, swiping his thumb over the skin of Laurent’s hand, just to remind himself of the dizzying reality of all of this. “We have all week.”

“Yes, and it will take us a whole week to get to the stables and back if you keep stopping us,” Laurent teases. “Do you have no self control?”

“We’re here,” Damen says suddenly, looking forward to where their path reaches an open; a stretch of field that Damen knows is situated right by the stables. He can see the sunlight streaming through the opening, a little cluster of insects dancing in the warm air. He leads Laurent through the opening, the stifling flowery smell dissipating into clean, open ocean air and the fresh smell of grass teased by the breeze. Laurent stands, admiring the vast open fields, letting the gentle breeze cool the sweat that had ever so slightly formed on his overheated skin. The stables are close enough that Damen can see inside them; can ever so slightly smell the hay, and hear the horses. He tugs on Laurent’s hand again, growing impatient suddenly, and lets a little wellspring of delight open inside him when he hears Laurent laugh behind him, trying to keep up with Damen’s wider, more urgent strides. 

“I told you,” Damen says, turning to Laurent, giddiness running through him. “I have something for you.” 

“What is it?” Laurent says, staring at him with something akin to wonder. It seems obvious, now, obvious enough that Laurent’s intelligent mind should be able to work it out, but he wonders if Laurent is pressing down on his own logical thinking, so that he might be surprised by whatever Damen has to show him. It’s ridiculously endearing to think about.

“Stay here,” Damen dips his head, pressing a small kiss to Laurent’s lips, and lets go of his hand. He strolls into the stables, giddiness in every one of his steps as he approaches the mare, brushing his fingers through her mane and patting her neck, watching her nostrils flare. He tries to picture how Laurent might react, clipping reins in place so that he can lead her out and present her to him. His heart beats irregularly in his chest; silly anxiety about how his gesture might be received, as if Laurent were some youth he were trying to court; trying to impress, not someone who has already pledged himself to Damen. 

When he reaches the stable doors, he allows himself a moment of delight in simply watching Laurent, who has his back to the stables now, strolling through the grass that reaches his sandalled ankles. It’s a wild, free version of Laurent that Damen does not think he will ever tire of and then, after a moment, he tugs on the mare’s reins, just to get her to make a noise. It works, and Laurent turns on the spot, whatever words he was going to say before he turned slipping away. 

Laurent’s expression is  _ beautiful;  _ another image that Damen tucks away, that he will remember forever—his wide eyes, the bright, beautiful look on his face as the flush hits his cheeks. The simple shock of what Damen had done. Laurent doesn’t move; the breeze teasing wisps of his hair across his face, and Damen wonders if this might be another impossible instance of Damen rendering Laurent, of all people, speechless. 

“ _ Damen,”  _ Laurent breathes, in that unique way that Damen will never tire of hearing. 

Damen leads the mare forward, her hooves brushing through the grass as he brings her to Laurent. “I remember what happened to the last mare you were gifted.”

The rest doesn’t need saying; he sees it in Laurent’s eyes, the flicker of hurt as his gaze shifts back to Damen. The past aches between them in a way that doesn’t need words—Laurent’s last mare had been Auguste’s, and the Regent had killed her. He knows they’re both thinking about it, even when Laurent lifts his hand and brushes it over the mare’s long, waterfall mane. 

“She’s beautiful,” Laurent says, a stunned sort of tone to his voice. “Damen. You—didn’t have to—”

“I wanted you to have this,” Damen says, stepping into Laurent’s space irresistibly. His fingers find Laurent’s waist under the cloak, pulling him closer, like being out of Laurent’s space is physically painful. It is, in a way. “I asked you to come riding with me.” 

“Damen, I—” Laurent drops his hand from her mane, sliding it around Damen’s neck, bringing his head down into a deep, long kiss. Damen presses his thumbs into the dips of Laurent’s waist, letting their tongues meet sweetly. With their bodies pressed together, he can just about feel the rabbit-fast beating of Laurent’s heart—overwhelmed, almost, by this simple gesture. Damen grins against his lips. 

“I want to court you properly,” Damen mumbles against his lips, kissing down to the line of Laurent’s jaw. “Like I said I would. The way you deserve.”

“You’re— _ ah _ —ridiculous,” Laurent breathes, tilting his head just a little despite himself. “Thank you.”

He lets Laurent pull away then, no matter how regrettable it is, and watches him circle the mare, admiring her with an expression akin to childlike wonder; awe. It’s not an expression he ever thought he would see on Laurent’s face—it feels ridiculous that his tightly laced clothing, stony expression, and remarks that could strip paint from walls would be traded for this—for the loose fabric of a chiton and a bright, giddiness and honesty. Damen would imagine it as some sort of silly fantasy, if he weren’t so acutely aware of every single painful step that had brought them to this moment. Every single moment he had watched Laurent struggle between keeping Damen outside his iron cast walls, and the impossible need to let Damen into the rawest, most honest parts of him. It had not been something easily won; seeing Laurent like this had been testing for both of them.

Then in one smooth, almost effortless motion, Laurent pulls himself up and mounts her.  

Damen tilts his head to admire him, sitting straight backed on the horse; not quite the immovable golden, royal presence he had been all those days riding at the border, but a flicker of that is still there in Laurent’s demeanour. Except, here, there’s something freer and brighter in his expression. Something, ridiculously, reserved only for Damen. Everything feels ridiculous. Ridiculous and impossible and—Damen is in love with every moment of it, of this new, bright thing between them. He tugs his own horse from the stables and mounts her, readying himself for the ride. Laurent is smiling at him. 

“Do you want to test her out?” Damen asks, smiling. He thinks he hasn’t stopped smiling since they arrived. “We could race.”

“I will win,” Laurent says evenly, without a fleck of arrogance to his voice. Because it’s  _ not  _ arrogance, it is just simple truth. Damen knows it too. Sitting up here, atop his mare, the cloak billows out behind Laurent in the wind, the perfect picture of the royalty that he is. Damen lets himself look for a moment, at the way the sunlight catches on his blonde hair, setting it ablaze like liquid gold. 

“Let’s find out,” Damen says and jerks the reins, setting off in a gallop across the field. Behind him, he hears Laurent swear, jerking his mare into a gallop too. He can’t help but laugh as they ride across the fields, the hooves kicking up clouds of dandelion spores and insects that were residing in the long grass, all of them humming in the summer air. The freedom after so long of being forced into days of regimes feels incredibly lightening; loosening something in Damen’s chest. He wonders if it’s the same for Laurent, and thinks it probably is. That same wild freedom that he’d seen, and not quite understood, on the rooftops in Nesson-Eloy. He understood it now; the first feeling of freedom after so long of being trapped in Arles, in his uncle’s court. 

It’s a childish, giddy feeling—riding out across the fields and trying to keep up with Laurent’s fast pace; a childish, giddy feeling that reminds him of riding out with Kastor when he was young, racing him across the fields at Ios. Back when Kastor had been—back when it had been different. He knows it is the same for Laurent, the memory of Auguste bright in his mind.

Somewhere, halfway through their race, he loses sight of Laurent ahead of him. He had expected Laurent would win, but not by  _ this much— _ it would be irritating, if it did not come with the knowledge that the mare he had gifted Laurent fits with him perfectly; a perfect, easy ride across the Akielon fields. It comes with an edge of pride, that Laurent and his new mare won so effortlessly. He finds Laurent still mounted, under the shade of one of the trees by the river, circling the trunk, waiting for him. He knows Laurent is trying to look effortless, as if he’s been waiting for  _ so long,  _ but the rapid rise and fall of Laurent’s breathing; the flare of the mare’s nostrils tell Damen that they can’t have arrived any more than two minutes ago. 

“Now who’s showing off?” Damen says, his breathing laboured. His own mare grunts, her nostrils flaring as she desperately drags in lungfuls of air after the long race, and Damen slowly trots her over to Laurent’s horse, tugging their reins together and kissing him the way he’d imagined they would. Laurent hums, leaning across the gap to seek out Damen’s mouth again, indulging in a deep, slow kiss that regrettably has to be broken off too soon; their breathing too laboured to sustain it. Up close, Damen can see how much the exertion exhausted Laurent; the roots of his hair are damp and his skin is pink and shiny—overheated from the race, and the hot midday sun. On second thoughts, it was a bad idea to suggest a race—Laurent is not the type to back down, and perhaps this is not the weather to be testing Laurent’s oversensitivity.  

He can see it in Laurent’s gaze, even, a dizzy bleariness that leaves his vision ever so slightly unfocused compared to his usual piercing gaze. Damen brushes a strand of damp hair behind Laurent’s ear and then dismounts, tying the reins of his mare to one of the low hanging branches of the tree. He watches Laurent do the same, swaying slightly when his sandalled feet touch the dusty ground by the bank of the river, and Damen resists the urge to reach out and catch him.

“Be careful,” Damen says, despite himself. “You’re overheated.”

“We’re in the shade now,” Laurent says, un-clipping his cloak and laying it down on the grassy, dusty bank, and sitting down on it. Laurent’s breathing is still shallow. “I did not hear you say that I won.”

“You won,” Damen says, amused. Laurent hums, leaning his weight back on his arms, pale, slightly pinked limbs unfolding in the shade. Damen strolls to the river once he has sought out the little carved wooden vessel he stashed in one of the bags tied to his mare. He dips it in the cool water, watching the fireflies that dance over the rippling surface of the river, and carefully brings the water over to the horses, drizzling it over both of them and listening to the  _ crack  _ as it splashes on dried out, dusty ground. He repeats the action, this time bringing the water over to Laurent and dipping his fingers in it, gently running his wet hand over Laurent’s forehead. The whimper he earns is instantaneous, Laurent’s eyes sliding shut, his head tipping back. 

“We could—” Damen drizzles the rest of the water over Laurent’s skin. “If you were too hot.”

“What?” Laurent’s eyes open, unfocused. Damen thinks its better to show him, or more, his own impulse tells him that it’s what he wants, whether Laurent decides to follow him or not. Slowly, he unclips the lion pin at his shoulder, just to allow himself the delight of watching Laurent’s vision focus, his interest piquing despite his overheated, exhausted state. He tugs on the tie at his waist, letting the chiton fall to his feet, leaving him naked to the summer breeze. Laurent sits up, his gaze shifting across Damen’s body, reacting visibly to it. When Laurent’s eyes fall back on Damen’s face, there’s a hint of amusement to his voice when he drawls; “Is that your solution to everything?”

“Not sex,” Damen says, though he would not protest to that. He reaches down and unclips his sandals, letting himself feel the cool grass beneath his feet, and slowly navigates his way down to the riverbank, wading out into the cool current of the river. Laurent stares at him. Damen cups his hands under the surface, bringing up a handful of water and dropping it over his own hair, letting it run rivets down his body. He sees the way Laurent’s eyes track the water, and smiles, liking the feeling of performing, almost, for Laurent. He does it again, slower this time, more pronounced. “Do you want to join me?”

“I—” Laurent’s gaze shifts to their surroundings, as if there would be someone watching, out here. It’s a ridiculous sentiment; it feels as if they are the only two people in the world, here, sequestered away in the furthest corner of the Akielon countryside. When his vision falls back on Damen, the decision has already been made.“Okay.”

Damen watches Laurent get to his feet, the consciousness in every single movement as he undresses himself; the act of being naked outdoors is still as transgressive to Laurent as it had been yesterday, and so Damen outstretches his arm to encourage Laurent to wade out into the water with him. When Laurent is finally naked, he slowly picks his way down to the riverbank, standing barefoot in the sand, in the midday sun. The sunlight reflects on the surface of the water; gold entwining with blue in a blur of colour that will always remind him of Laurent now. Blue and gold—the golden sunlight caught on the expanse of blue ocean; gold stars against dark blue sky; the burning golden sun against a bright blue canvas; blue eyes and golden hair; blue fabric and golden laces.  _ Laurent.  _ He sees him in everything beautiful now, and Damen will never tire of it. There’s a shyness to what he is doing when Laurent carefully steps into the water, the currents sliding against his pale, overheated limbs and Damen wades over to take Laurent’s hand, lacing their fingers together.

Laurent sighs, the delight of cool water hitting his too-warm, sensitive skin, and Damen pulls him a little further into the water until it is at waist height. He wondered, yesterday, if Laurent has ever waded in wild waters like this, and he has his answer now; from the bright wonder in Laurent’s expression, the transgression of what he is doing is written all over him in disbelief. 

“Do you feel better?” Damen asks, running his wet hands up the planes of Laurent’s chest before sliding them around his waist, pulling him closer in the water.

“Yes,” Laurent mumbles, closing his eyes. “I almost wore myself out beating you in that race. Almost. You were an easy win.” 

“I’m sure,” Damen says, amused. “Maybe I let you win.”

Laurent opens his eyes. “No, you didn’t. I saw how out of breath you were. It was a miracle you actually made it here, I thought you would collapse out in the fields.” 

“All right,” Damen laughs, kissing a wet trail against Laurent’s hot skin. “I didn’t let you win.” 

He waits until Laurent’s breathing has evened out, pressing gentle kisses to the curve of Laurent’s shoulder and drizzling water over Laurent’s hair until he’s sure that Laurent has sufficiently cooled down. Then, he takes one careful step backwards, and splashes a wave of water over Laurent that is almost strong enough to unbalance him. Laurent yelps, his eyes coming open in shock, and then Damen is helplessly laughing. 

“You—” Laurent stares at him, almost in disbelief. 

“No,” Damen laughs, backing away. “Wait—Laurent, no.”

Laurent laughs, retaliating with his own heavy splash of water that soaks Damen, and then any semblance of a nice, relaxing soak is lost in a chaotic war as they run through the river as best they can, splashing each other with water and, helplessly, laughing. Laurent has speed on his side, of course, his slender form able to move through the weight of the water with much more ease than Damen’s thick form that drags almost sluggishly through the water, slowing down each movement of his limbs. Of course, Damen’s thick form has it’s advantages in this  _ war  _ of course, Damen thinks with another ripple of laughter, because it means that the size of the splashes he sends in Laurent’s direction are truly catastrophic. He manages to throw Laurent off balance more than once, Laurent’s golden head disappearing under the water before re-emerging with a bright, playful rage. 

“Stop! Wait!” Damen calls out, breathless with laughter, and Laurent stops mid-movement, his whole body poised to send another wave in Damen’s direction. Laurent is laughing too, helplessly, his whole chest heaving with it. “Laurent, please.”

“Say you yield,” Laurent cries out, throwing more water in Damen’s direction that drags a rather undignified cry from Damen’s throat. “Say it!” 

“Laurent!” Damen holds his hands up in surrender, breaking into laughter. “I yield, I yield. I can’t do this anymore.”

Laurent laughs, wading over to him, his whole body shaking with laughter. “You are pathetic and I have beaten you twice now.” 

“You’re right,” Damen grins, reaching out to drag Laurent’s body towards him, pulling them flush together. Laurent yelps, steadying himself by clutching Damen’s arms. “I vanquished you yesterday when we wrestled.”

“That isn’t fair,” Laurent says, looking up at him through wet lashes. His whole body is wet, shining gold in the sunlight. Damen commits it to memory. “You are a foot taller than me.”

“It’s less than a foot,” Damen says, and knows he’s said it before. Laurent knows too, because something fond flickers in his eyes. It’s impossible for them not to kiss then, Laurent tilting himself up in the water and Damen dipping his head down; their lips meeting in the middle in a slow, wet slide that is peppered with the echoes of helpless laughter. They kiss for a long, stretched out moment in which the water on their upper bodies starts to dry in the hot, overhead sun, until Laurent lets out a low moan into Damen’s mouth, impossibly pressing his body closer to Damen’s. He feels it then, the first stirring of Laurent’s arousal pressed against his thigh, sparking the thickening of his own cock between his legs.

He groans too, bringing the flats of his palms up Laurent’s back, mapping the curve of his spine, pulling their bodies closer together until they’re almost grinding together under the rippling surface of the water. He brings one of his hands down, cupping the curve at the base of Laurent’s spine, almost dipping his fingers where he so desperately wants to be. Laurent whimpers against him, into his mouth, and Damen sees it as a cue to seek out that irresistible point in Laurent’s neck, again.

“ _ Damen, _ ” Laurent groans, fingers tightening around Damen’s biceps, their hips sliding together under the water. He moves his lips over Laurent’s neck and feels Laurent’s lips against his ear. “That’s twice you’ve gotten me naked outside now.”

“Mhm,” Damen hums his agreement, kissing along Laurent’s skin, rocking his hips against Laurent’s.

“Maybe now it is your turn to do something transgressive,” Laurent mumbles, and Damen does not quite make the connection at first, until Laurent ghosts his lips against Damen’s ear and drops his voice. “Fuck me.”

Damen groans, hips stuttering against Laurent’s. “Here?”

“I lay out my cloak on the riverbank,” Laurent murmurs, threading his fingers through Damen’s wet curls, kissing a spot just behind Damen’s ear. “In the shade of the trees. You can fuck me there.” 

“ _ Fuck, _ ” Damen groans. The idea of it whites out all thought, then—even though it’s incredibly daring to even consider, just as it had been in the gardens yesterday, even if there is no one around for miles. He thinks of it, the hum of cicadas in the air; salty river water drying on their skin and the soft scent of flowers and fruit in the air as he slowly slides into Laurent’s body; thrusting inside. His cock thickens, and he feels Laurent smirk against his skin. He knows he felt the twitch of Damen’s cock, and knows he won. 

“Come on,” Laurent reaches down, finding Damen’s hand and sliding their fingers together, wading out towards the riverbank, tugging Damen behind him. It’s—a truly  _ incredible  _ sight to watch Laurent emerge from the water from behind; the tips of his hair tripping water in rivets down the curve of his back, right down to his buttocks, the water sliding off his pale skin. Damen groans, pressing up behind Laurent as they walk across the sand, kissing his shoulder, unable to keep himself away from Laurent for any longer. He thinks, if that image were replayed to him over and over again, Damen could probably come from that alone. “Stop it. If you keep doing that, we are not even going to make it to the shade line. You are just going to fuck me here on the sand.”

“The sand would get everywhere,” Damen says with a frown, letting Laurent slip away so that he can step up to the shade line and his discarded cloak under the tree. 

“I’m surprised you had enough rational thought left to even consider that,” Laurent says, slowly lowering himself down onto the cloak and lying down across it, resting his weight back on the palms of his hand. He looks up at Damen through wet lashes, his cock already hard and curved towards his abdomen, his whole body glittering with water in the light, even here in the shade line. Laurent’s gaze passes over Damen’s figure, probably admiring how he looks wet and warmed from the sun, too. He lowers himself until he’s kneeling over Laurent’s legs, leaning down to capture him in a long, slow kiss that steals Laurent’s breath. 

He can’t believe they’re going to  _ do this,  _ outside, on the grass—it goes against all of his Akielon instincts, just as walking naked had gone against all of Laurent’s Veretian instincts, but his cock is thick and hard against Laurent’s hip when he slots their bodies together, rutting against him. It’s a nuisance that they do not have anything to lubricate with—Damen had not thought to bring it; after all, he had never expected he would need it out on a ride, but he knows how desperately Laurent’s tight body needs it; knows it would be impossible to push inside without it, so he improvises as best he can with saliva. 

It’s not good enough, not really, not for Laurent’s tense, unyielding body, and so Damen takes a long, long time opening Laurent up. He leans up to capture Laurent’s lips in another kiss, drinking in all the helpless little moans that slip from Laurent’s lips as he pushes two of his fingers a little deeper into Laurent’s body, seeking out something that will unlock all of Laurent’s tension. Laurent groans into his mouth, spreading his thighs a little more in some sort of plea for Damen to push his fingers deeper, and so he does, curving them inside Laurent.

“D— _ ah,  _ Damen, I—” Laurent groans, tilting his head back and breaking off from the kiss, instinctively pushing his hips down onto Damen’s fingers. Damen pushes deeper, rubbing the pads of his fingers inside Laurent, earning a groan that is slightly higher-pitched than the last. Damen kisses him, drinking up the last of that noise. “That—feels good.”

Damen thrusts his fingers in, a simulated fuck that has Laurent biting off little whimpers, trying to repress himself as best he can, but the sun and the ride—and the soak, has loosened the tension that is usually so intrinsic to Laurent’s way of lovemaking. Damen loves it; thinks he’ll make love in this slow, languid, unhurried way every single time—because it’s how Laurent likes it, but also because it unknots all the little bundles of tension and overthinking that Laurent gets caught up in, and allows him the luxury of hearing Laurent properly, when he is not holding himself back from Damen. 

He presses a little further, shifting to his knees so that he is not holding himself up with his hand, and moves his free hand to Laurent’s cock, stroking it slowly, in the same lazy rhythm that he fucks his fingers into Laurent. Each one of Laurent’s long moans blurs into the next, and Damen almost forgets about the heavy weight of his own cock between his legs; all his focus on Laurent. He slows down further, watching Laurent tremble beneath him. 

It aches when he pulls his fingers out of Laurent, for both of them, but it’s worth it for the long, slow groan that slips from Laurent’s lips when he slides inside; pushing his cock into the tight, loose heat of Laurent’s body. It seems impossible that Laurent could loosen for him, even after all the times before this that he has; every time he slides inside Laurent it feels  _ impossible  _ that he’s being allowed this. Seems impossible that he’s allowed it for the rest of their lives. 

The flowery scent of the air smells strange mixed with the thick, heady scent of sex when Laurent finally comes beneath him, Damen thrusting and coming inside him only moments later; the sweet, summer air stained with the smell of come and sex. Damen collapses beside him on the cloak, both of their breathing laboured in the heat. Between them, their hands find each others, their fingers lacing together, and then Damen is  _ laughing.  _ The reality of what they just did hits him, tugging disbelieving laughter from him— _ in public.  _ It feels  _ Veretian,  _ something new and impossible for Damen, and he turns his head to look at Laurent, at the dazed, lazy expression on his face. It’s new for him, too, he supposes; even if it is not transgressive for his Veretian mind; all of this is new for Laurent, in a way that it is not for Damen.

It aches, and Damen pushes the thoughts away. It is not a door he wants to open, not yet, not here. Not until Laurent is ready to open that door, and let Damen in. He promised himself, some point after the Kingsmeet, that it would be Laurent’s choice to acknowledge what fell there, and Damen would wait until then. He squeezes Laurent’s hand, and lets his heart speed up when Laurent shifts closer, resting his sweat slick temple against the wet skin of Damen’s own chest. 

“Lets go to the beach tonight,” Laurent says, lazily, his fingers tracing a pattern against Damen’s skin. Damen brings his own hand up, twirling fingertips through golden curls. “I think I would like to see the Akielon ocean at night.”

“All right,” Damen says, and then grins, echoing Laurent’s words from yesterday. “We can go to the ocean if I can move tonight.”

Laurent laughs, turning his face to press it against Damen’s chest. “Shut up.”

Damen chuckles, falling silent and allowing them both the simple pleasure of existing like this, the hum of summer in the air, drying the water and sweat—and other things—on their skin. It’s blissful, and Damen has to appreciate the way outdoor sex  _ feels.  _ After a long stretch of time, Laurent looks up at him through thick, golden lashes.

“Thank you,” Laurent breathes, his voice honest. “For bringing me here.”

“I wanted to bring you here  _ so much,”  _ Damen says, ghosting his lips against Laurent’s hairline. “I didn’t think—when I dared to imagine it, I didn’t think we’d ever get to go.”

Laurent is quiet for a long moment. “Neither did I.”

“I’m glad we’re here,” Damen says, kissing Laurent’s forehead.

“I’m glad my uncle didn’t kill you,” Laurent says, and there’s something to his tone that beats something painful in Damen’s chest.

“Me too,” Damen says, twirling his fingers through Laurent’s hair. “I’m glad he didn’t kill you. I’m glad he isn’t going to hurt you ever again.”

Laurent’s eyes flicker up to his, and he doesn’t respond, just smiles softly, almost sadly in a way that makes Damen's chest ache, something painfully and silently acknowledged between them, and slides his arm around Damen’s waist. 

**Author's Note:**

> follow me on twitter @llaurentofvere or on tumblr @laurxnts !! thanks


End file.
